


the angel's notebook

by galaxy_charm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: :D, M/M, but my brain said no, enjoy, i wanted to write a little bit of angst today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxy_charm/pseuds/galaxy_charm
Summary: after the angel's death, dean finds a notebook cas once used.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	the angel's notebook

after the angel's death, dean finds a notebook cas once used, tucked away neatly into the drawers of the bedside table. feeling nothing, he takes it, holds the feather-light weight in his hands. the cover is plain in design, the colour the shade of dean's eyes. he knows he shouldn't pry, but he can't help himself. he collaspes by the side of castiel's bed and flips through the pages, gently, because this is all he has left of the angel and he can't ruin it too.

the first entry is dated 'sunday, 10 november 2013', in faded blue ink. it was a long time ago.

castiel's orderly and neat handwriting fills up the slender margins and flows from line to line as if it were a stream, like water. dean lets the angel's soundless voice guide him along; he was drawn and could do nothing else.

the angel writes about a lot of things.

he writes of his fall, of his newfound sensations, of his hunger, his pain, his regret. he writes of his brothers and sisters, of better times, of the time before god left. he writes of a neighbourhood cat, his expenses and savings, his dreams. he writes of green eyes, of foolishness, of things he should not think about, things he should have left alone.

each word settles in dean's chest like birds made of stone. unable to move, unable to shake away.

but time moves on. the angel gets his grace back. the entries fill the pages less, and are dated less frequently. many of the paragraphs are reduced to words, to drawings, to splashes of ink, to stains of blood.

the angel writes, more unrestrainedly now, of his ruined wings, of being incapable of washing the blood off his angel blades, of(f) his hands. he writes of wishing to fly, of worrying about those in his charge, of wanting to check in but something preventing him, of green eyes.

he writes of demons, demons with green eyes dogging his steps, haunting in his wake. he writes of lucifer, of cain, of billy, of mary, of sacrifice. he writes of jack, of hope, of fathers, of sons, of fathers and sons. of the pastel moon, of golden stars, of brown oak. and of course of green, green, green, green.

by this point, dean has his head in his hands. he isn't sure whether to blame himself for being so dense or to blame the angel for burning so quiet. its always been the fire that takes everything good from him, everything worth saving.

hours, _days_ must passed since he last left this room, since he picked up the cursed book and never set it back down. sammy must be worrying about him, but he decides he's too empty, too depthless to care. taking a swig of bear, he flips to the next page.

the entry is marked 'sunday, 1 november 2020', in fresh blue ink. it seemed a long time ago.

the entry read:

_fates, forgive me, for what i will confess before these pages. days are coming to an end, and i fear above all else that time will not come. so i will lay down my sins before you, on paper, across from the fire, below the impending darkness._

_i, the fallen angel falling again and again and again and again,_

_i will fall_ _one last time_ _against death._

_i will fall for the righteous man._

_i pray that i am wrong, but i, the blind man, see no other way. i fear death will become a threat, and jack must save his strength. someone must stop her, and i will pay the price for my faults all those years ago. all those many, many, many years ago._

_i do not regret what i have done, for it led me to the most bittersweet years of my existence, the most selfless man i will ever know. i only regret that i may never find the courage to say it to those green depths, so i will say it here:_

_i, castiel, love dean winchester._

_i have loved him since i healed and raised him from perdition, and i love him still. i love him even though he believes he is only made from fire, from war and catastrophe. i love him even though he cannot love himself, he cannot love me._

_i will love him always,_

_~~like hydrangeas blooming in the apricity of snowlit sun, in these bloodstained hands.~~ _

_but what i want, it cannot be true. there are much more things at stake, so much more to give. to atone for._

_dean, if you ever_ _read this,_ _forgive me, for all i can do to bear with this pain is love you, love you more than time and fate has allowed me to, love you more than i ever have._

_and it is with this love, that i will go into nothingness._

the words bleed onto next page. 'monday, 2 november 2020':

_i love you._

'tuesday':

_i love you._

'wednesday':

_i love you._

and the entry, titled 'thursday', is blank.

with shaking hands, barely legible words, dean fills in the achingly untounched margins:

~~_**i forgive you, for all of it. i'm so sorry for not saying back. please, please, please, just come home. i pray for it, i ache for it, and right now i'm begging for it. please, just this once.** _ ~~

**_i love you too, cas._ **

_**come home soon.** _


End file.
